The Faded Attic
"You’re holding the line, or you’re holding the bag, Bernard. Pick one." The voice did not come from a throat, but from the shifting, breathable fog that filled the space where the border used to be. It was a pocket of white, a blinding void that smelled of ozone and wet concrete, a place that existed in the cracks of the map, a place where the legal line between the United States and Mexico...
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